[RP] The Forsaken Halls

Before anyone else can react, Oral’s instincts take over. He leans forward and presses the small, round stone bearing the unfamiliar sigil. A faint tremor passes through the dais as the stone disc clicks softly and recedes into the wall, triggering an immediate reaction. A thin beam of light shoots outward from the base of the dais, racing along the ancient grooves etched into the floor, following the same intricate pathways as before.

The glowing line surges toward Mirror C, and upon contact, a deep, resonant tone hums through the chamber, reverberating against the stone walls. The beam does not stop there—it quickly redirects, streaking across the room toward Mirror F, which responds with a second, slightly higher chime, filling the air with layered, harmonic vibrations. Then, as if following some predestined sequence, the light veers back across the chamber and rushes toward Mirror B, where a third, even sharper tone joins the chorus of ringing notes.

The sequence halts for a moment—Mirror B does not pass the light onward. Instead, the mirror quivers ever so slightly, as though charged with some unseen force, the glass rippling faintly like a disturbed pond. A moment later, the ceiling above them responds. A shaft of yellow light descends from an unseen source high above, pouring down onto Mirror B, bathing its surface in a golden radiance. The mirror glows with an intensity that eclipses the others, its reflective surface now brimming with potential energy. Something has changed.

As Oral reaches toward the floating crown, his fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before committing to the motion. The diadem hovers, pristine and regal, its silver filigree glistening under the ethereal light, the gemstones set within it refracting dazzling prisms across the chamber walls.

His hand extends, fingertips just inches from its surface, yet when he moves to grasp the crown—his fingers pass straight through it. There is no resistance, no weight, nothing but empty air. It is as though the crown itself does not exist, merely a projection of something beyond the material realm. The radiant jewels adorning it seem to glitter mockingly, as if taunting his inability to claim them.

Unlike the moment when Mahluk first attempted to grasp the floating sword, there is no shift in the mirrors, no sudden flicker in the arcane light, no grinding of stone to signal a reaction. The room remains eerily unchanged, as if dismissing his attempt entirely

The stone dais, bound by its ancient mechanisms, resists any attempt to turn it in the opposite direction. It seems to follow only one predetermined path, forcing its sequence forward with each new activation. As it grinds another quarter turn, the image of the radiant crown flickers and fades, dissolving into the golden light as if it had never truly existed.

For a brief moment, the chamber is empty, the illuminated dais holding nothing but the shaft of light streaming from above. Then, from the void, a new image materializes—a finely painted oval portrait, its surface appearing as if suspended in the air like the illusions before it. The subject is a strikingly beautiful woman, her emerald-green eyes almost seeming to pierce through the ethereal canvas, following those who gaze upon her. Her features are delicate yet commanding, with high cheekbones, full lips, and flowing dark hair that cascades down her shoulders in carefully painted waves.

The artistry is exquisite, with an almost lifelike quality that makes her appear as though she could step from the frame at any moment. Yet something about the portrait unsettles the air in the chamber. Unlike the sword or the crown, which shone with grandeur and power, this image carries a presence—a lingering watchfulness that prickles against the senses. The emerald eyes seem almost too vivid, too knowing, as if they conceal some hidden truth.

As before, a stone button with a glowing sigil clicks into place on the wall of the dais after the dais is turned completely.

Though the portrait does not change, the weight of its gaze is undeniable. The chamber remains silent, waiting for the next move.

Oral, with a knowing smirk, steps past the protruding stone button on the wall of the dais, choosing instead to take matters into his own hands. Placing both hands firmly against the weathered surface of the stone column, he pushes with steady force. The ancient mechanism resists for a moment—centuries of inertia refusing to yield without effort—until, with a deep, resonant grind, the dais obeys, rotating yet another quarter turn.

The chamber vibrates with the motion, dust cascading from unseen crevices above as the gears and hidden mechanics settle into place. A final, satisfying click echoes through the room as the motion ceases. Then, as if summoned back into existence by his command, the radiant image of the sword flares into view once more. Suspended above the dais, its gilded form gleams within the column of celestial light, dazzling and magnificent, as if woven from the very essence of sunlight itself.

The room is momentarily bathed in splendor, the mirrors capturing and fracturing the golden brilliance into countless shards of light that dance along the stone walls in shimmering phantasms. Blazing reflections shift and ripple like living things, casting ghostly afterimages that flicker across the chamber. The sheer intensity of the illumination is almost overwhelming, the resplendent display a stark contrast to the heavy, ominous silence that had filled the chamber just moments before.

With a thoughtful glance, you press the stone, testing your hypothesis to confirm whether the light will follow the expected path—or if some unseen factor will disrupt its movement once more. As the circular glyph sinks back into place with a familiar click, a pulse of energy radiates outward from the dais, igniting the intricate grooves in the floor with brilliant, flowing light.

To your surprise, the illumination behaves exactly as intended this time, tracing a flawless path across the stone surface. The glowing line surges forward, snaking toward Mirror B, which hums with an almost musical resonance as the first tone reverberates through the chamber. Without hesitation, the light arcs away, striking Mirror E, then Mirror A, each producing a unique harmonic note that lingers in the air like an invisible choir. Finally, the glowing path reaches Mirror G, completing the sequence.

As the last mirror is struck, a deep, resonant chime echoes through the chamber—a finality that feels both commanding and expectant. Mirror G shudders, as if something within it has awakened. A sudden cascade of brilliant white light descends from the unseen ceiling above, engulfing the mirror’s surface in an otherworldly radiance. The glass does not simply reflect the light—it ripples, distorting and undulating like the surface of a disturbed pond.

The mirror no longer behaves like a mere pane of glass. Instead, its shimmering surface pulses with liquid-like movement.

The sword pierces through the glass as though it were a pool of vertical water. The reflection remains, but shimmers faintly as though tiny ripples were undulating across its surface. You can see nothing past the surface of the mirror however.